~Where the Cursed Heir Touches the Path of the Sword~
The chamber was quiet again.
Not peacefully so, but with the unsettling stillness of an ancient place where even the air held its breath. Curtains swayed gently from a cold draft slithering through cracks in the window frames. The pale morning light bled through frost-coated glass, casting long shadows across stone floors worn by centuries.
Kel sat on the edge of the bed, his frail body angled slightly forward, fingers tapping lightly against his knee. His breath was shallow but steady. For now.
The door opened softly.
Marine entered, careful not to disturb the silence. In her arms, she carried a stack of manuals reverently—as if they weren't just books, but promises.
Old tomes, scrolls sealed with faded wax, and—resting on top—a long, rectangular case wrapped in deep blue cloth.
She approached the bedside and laid them gently upon the crimson sheets.
"Young Master Kel," she murmured, bowing slightly. "These are the sword arts you requested."
Her voice was low, respectful, but beneath it lingered something else.
Hope.
Kel looked at her for a moment before replying. "You worked hard. Thank you, Marine."
She paused, just a fraction, before smiling—softly, like sunlight through the clouds.
"It is my duty," she said, before bowing once more and exiting the chamber.
The door closed with a muted thud.
Silence returned, but not the same silence as before.
Now, it felt like the room was watching.
---
Kel gazed at the manuals laid across his bed.
Not with excitement.
With quiet intensity.
These are not tools of power, he reminded himself.
These are instruments of survival.
He picked up the first tome.
Its leather binding, worn from countless hands that must have once held it with purpose, carried the faint scent of steel and dust.
His finger traced the title.
[Ironflow Sword: The Way of Weight and Momentum]
– Written by Master Vilhelm Eire
Heavy techniques. Requires endurance. Suits someone with strong bones and stable mana circulation.
Kel glanced at his reflection in the nearby mirror—pale skin, fragile frame.
"…I'd shatter before finishing the first swing."
He set it aside.
Another.
[Featherstride Blade: Dance of Light Foot and Air]
– Written by Leo Narath
Speed. Agility. Footwork.
His legs trembled merely from crossing the room.
Not even worth considering.
Next.
A manual bound in pitch-black leather.
[Silent Edge — Swordlessness in Form]
—Author unknown—
His fingers hovered longer here.
A technique about cutting without cutting.
The art of presence over motion.
Kel felt something stir.
But he closed it. Not yet. Too advanced.
He continued.
Manuals passed beneath his hands one after another. Each title sparked a whisper of curiosity, quickly crushed by brutal realism.
Not possible, not yet, too risky, too physical, too mana-dependent…
And then—
his fingers grazed one worn nearly to ruin.
Its edges were frayed. The ink faded.
Not grand. Not powerful.
Almost forgotten.
He lifted it carefully.
[Essence of Breath: The Beginner's Path to Sword Spirit]
– Ser Kayden Rosenfeld
He froze.
"Rosenfeld…?"
An ancestor.
He flipped the cover open.
The first lines were not instructions. Not stances. Just… truth.
"Before the sword is held in hand, it must be forged in breath and bone."
"A sword is not technique. A sword is will."
Kel stared.
His mana was sealed.
Aura—locked.
Stats—pathetic.
But will…
That, he still possessed.
His fingers tightened around the manual.
"This one," he whispered. "This is where I start."
He set the others aside.
The chamber grew still, as if the air had chosen to listen.
Kel opened the manual again.
"Swordsmanship begins with breath."
"Not the breath of air—but the breath of purpose."
He straightened his posture.
Breath of purpose. Breath of intent. Easy.
He inhaled.
Pain exploded through his chest—white-hot, stabbing through lungs like broken glass.
His vision shook.
No. Not stopping.
He exhaled slowly.
The curse stirred beneath his skin, like coals trying to reignite but forced into suffocation.
Again.
Inhale.
Agony.
Exhale.
Burning.
His hands trembled. Sweat beaded across his brow.
On the fifth attempt—
Cough—!
Blood splattered across the stone.
"Damn—!"
He fell forward, clutching his chest. Breath ragged, heartbeat wild.
System—status— he thought, desperately.
The window flickered before him.
---
[Warning: Physical integrity compromised]
[Risk of organ damage: 57%]
[Recommendation: Cease all physical exertion]
---
Kel spat blood onto the floor and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"No."
His voice came weakly at first.
Then stronger.
"I have four years."
He lifted his head.
"I will not die here…"
His fingers curled.
"…nor at the academy."
He inhaled again—
"—nor as a tragedy."
The pain rushed back, relentless.
He pushed through.
Time blurred.
Each breath felt like swallowing knives.
At some point, his vision hazed.
Salt tears mingled with blood on his chin.
His body screamed to stop.
His curse roared to surrender.
But will—
Will remained.
His breath finally steadied, barely noticeable but real. Pain remained, but quieter.
Kel opened his eyes.
A faint, nearly imperceptible smile touched his lips.
"…Progress."
He stood.
His legs trembled violently.
He reached for the manual.
"Swordsmanship begins with breath," he murmured.
"And today, I breathed."
He pressed the manual to his chest.
"This is the beginning."
Another breath.
Another step.
His thoughts quieted.
One day at a time.
One breath at a time.
*Even a dying flame can become a wildfire… if it refuses to extinguish.*
Kel took a step—
And collapsed.
His body hit the floor with a muted thud.
The chamber fell silent once more, the ancient walls absorbing his unconscious form.
But his hand…
Still clutched the manual.
Even in collapse—
He did not let go.